


How to Raise Your Older Brother

by fencetastic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Past Abuse, Shit's going to go down
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-10-01 05:12:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10181429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencetastic/pseuds/fencetastic
Summary: Your name is DAVE STRIDER and you're way in over your head. Your brother is not okay but he's your brother. And you'll be taking care of him.You can totally do this. Right?





	1. Shock & Denial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eighth_chiharu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighth_chiharu/gifts).



Most people think living in Texas is heat 24/7 but the current ambience has you in three layers of clothing. Mittens, a beanie, and a scarf. It fucking snows here. You’re reminded of indie film movies, starting with some desolate scene in shades of colors that set the setting and let you know it’ll be a depressive journey with either an equally depressing ending or a mediocre happy ending that leaves you feeling empty.

Driving the old pickup truck, you feel this is the case. Whether you’ll have a shit ending on the shittier scale is still up for debate. And with your nerves bunching up enough to cause your back to stiffen and your stomach muscles to hurt, you feel every bit the protagonist of said indie film.

Hell. You thought you’d been fucking done with this. There was still a bit of guilt at how you’d handled it, but in the long run it’d been for the best. Right? Left it to the professionals. Best course of action, wasn’t it?

Your name is Dave Strider and last night, as you laid on the couch with Karkat watching another one of his ‘human research movies’, you’d received a call. Karkat been able to tell the call didn’t make you comfortable and he’d actually told you you didn’t have to come*. But you’re a Strider.

Striders aren’t cowards.

This is why you’re in the parking lot, hands on the steering wheel, taking deep breaths and trying your absolute best not to panic. You were fine. Things would be fine. It was just a progress report. So everything would be fine. You’re cold. Ice cold. Cold steel. That’s what you are. The coldest steel there ever was. No one could melt this wall of icy metal. This would be a great way to pep talk yourself if it wasn’t working you into a more desperate ball of anxiety.

Time to put your big boy pants on. You step out and look at the mental health hospital. It looks miserable. It probably doesn’t always look this way but it’s cloudy, it’s freezing, and the reason you’ve been called is not one you want to be here for.

Scene change.

Picture a doctor’s office. No no. Picture a principal’s office, at least atmosphere wise. You’re there, you know you fucked up, and now all you can do is wait until the gavel strikes down and you’re expelled. Except you haven’t fucked up. They just called you for that progress report. Not that they called it that. Your leg is bouncing and you’re slouched on the seat. You’re a full grown adult and you still feel like a guilty teenager.

The doctor smiles when she comes in, folder in her hands. “Good afternoon, Mr. Strider. I’m sorry for the sudden call.” As she speaks you sit up, hands on your knees.

It feels like there’s cold fear all over you. “Yeah no problem, Doc. So what’s up?”

You’ve straightened up but your shoulders are tense. Your leg is still bouncing. She opens the folder and gives a prim sigh, looking up at you. You wonder if this is how parents feel when they get called for what Johnny did behind the school bleachers.

“He hasn’t gotten any better, Mr. Strider. Actually, we feel he’s gotten worse.”

You’re cool. Antarctic. Frozen. “What do you mean.”

“We mean that since you left him in our care, his condition has worsened.” She looks worried. You look calm and your shades help. But you know you’re feeling that pit in your stomach.

There’s a moment of silence before she starts to explain.

You listen from far, far away. “So then.” You lick your lips. There’s a lump in your throat. “What do you suggest?”

Change the scene again.

The room is pretty bare. Mostly so the patients won’t hurt themselves. You feel apprehension in the worst sense. A hole deep inside you that you thought you wouldn’t have to feel anymore.

Once upon a time, Bro Strider was a monster of a man. Imposing, demanding, the quintessence of what being cool, _what being a hero_ should be. He was also a fucking piece of shit abuser, starving you, attacking you, beating you within an inch of your life in order to train you for a game which you’d risen out of as victor.

Now he’s just a blank faced man staring out the window in white scrubs, slouched and motionless. You feel the apprehension again mixed with guilt. He’s your family. Fucked up as your upbringing was. You’d read so many articles and positive posts about cutting out poisonous people from your life. It didn’t stop the horrible guilt you felt as you left your Bro in the hospital, hoping they could help him better than you ever could.

Except now you’re finding out that your lack of presence has had him completely shut down. It’s so strange, watching him just sit there. You remember he was large, heavily muscled with a body you’d hoped you could attain. He looks thinner now. He’s not wearing his cap or his shades, and as you move closer it makes you shudder somewhat. It feels so _unnatural_ to see him like this. He even looks pale because of the light from the lone, caged window.

‘ _He’s always more responsive when you’re around him Mr. Strider._ ’

You crouch in front of him. “Hey.” It’s soft. Even in this current state he makes you feel like you’re thirteen again, young and naïve. There’s no response. He keeps looking out the window. You turn to the doctor and she makes a ‘go on’ gesture with her head.

“Hey, Bro.” He blinks and your eyebrows raise slightly as he turns to see you. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. He stares at you. You have no idea what to do, what to say, how to act. You’re a God of Time and still, your brother/father/ectoguardian manages to leave you blank headed.

The thing about poisonous relationships is that, you still want that affection. Which is why you reach and touch his bare hand. Where are his gloves? So much of what makes him _him_ is not there. The thing that makes up your mind and will probably get you yelled at by Karkat is that, when you hold his hand, it twitches. There’s a movement of his eyes, like he recognizes you, but he doesn’t do much else.

Five hours and some paperwork later, you’re opening the door to your apartment and gently guiding your brother inside. It _still_ feels like a depressing indie film. The place is dark, the blinds making everything seem blueish, but you turn the lights easily enough and keep guiding him to his room. He walks easy enough when you’re holding his hand and pushing him by his broad shoulders which still feels _so wrong to you_. His room is untouched and it feels even worse going inside. He’d always told you not to come in unless he expressly asked you to and you almost expect him to turn around and drag your ass to the roof for a beat down.

All he does is sit on the bed when you guide him there and he just. Stays.

The room is silent as you stare. The doctor had given you a list of things to do. You’ll look at it later but for now, you do what you’d do if you found John drunk. You take his shoes off. You and find something he can sleep in and, _jesus fuck_ if it’s not strange moving him like some sort of—

You stop that train of thought and just go through the motions of changing your forty something year old brother into a loose shirt and loose pants. He lets you move him about as you please and stand him up to move the covers back. You sit him down again and manage to get him to lay down and cover him. It doesn’t hit you that you just managed to move him about and get him to bed like it was nothing until you’re in the kitchen getting something to drink.

The cup in your hands is filled with aj and you sit on the old, metal chair, looking at the papers and pamphlets you were given when you were handed custody of your brother. And then your hand is resting against your forehead. Why the fuck did you do that? You had every right to leave him right there. Just let him be a problem of the state. Wash your hands off that mess.

If you were a complete asshole. And that was the problem wasn’t it?

You still loved him. You still cared for him. He was still your ectobrother. Your now _very_ mentally ill ectobrother. And you weren’t some fucking monster that would have abandoned him to his own luck like he would have. Would he have done that? Just left you there? Some small, gentle part of you hopes that no, he wouldn’t have. Louder, and more rough, is the part of you that say he would have. Left you stuck there to fend for yourself as some sort of twisted training for you to snap out of it.

A sigh leaves you. You have messages in your phone. You should reply to those. But you’ll do it later. You have to find out what you’ll be doing for him. And by the looks of it you were going to pretty taking care of him 24/7. Thank fuck your little game shenanigans have you set.

It’s still so surreal.

Lil’ man having to take care of his old man.

The guy that weighs over 180lbs with a huge, defined body, that still looks like he could snap your neck in half, or he could beat you until you’re so bruised you can’t even sleep properly, that guy. You took him back. You’re going to take care of him. Providing for him. Making sure he was safe and sound. Or as sound as he could be.

Thin fingers rub at your temples.

Everyone was going to balk.


	2. Pain & Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to comparing shit to a movie. You can’t help it. It still feels like some depressing indie film. Where’s your depressing soundtrack. Maybe that’s something you can work on, make a damn playlist or something (the tv is on in the living room, you have your record player on in your room, speakers playing a podcast in the computer, just noise, noise noise.)

When the bowl crashes, your entire body tenses up for a fraction of a second. You take a stand with your sword at the ready. The house is silent but that means jack shit and you keep your sense open, keep yourself ready. Inside, your internal clock tells you it’s been five minutes. Nothing happens. You’re more than a little confused and you’re completely, what? _Squeezed?_ Tight and ready to fucking go. Ready for a fight, for a lash, for violence, for--

Then you remember you’re an adult and your Bro isn’t there to punish you for a mistake you made. Well, no, scratch that. He is here. He’s just _not_ exactly there to royally fuck you over and leave you bruised three weeks to Sunday.

Speaking of, it’s been three weeks since you took your brother in. Karkat was, no shit, furious that you did it. Not at you, hell no, he was surprised you took in a man that had not only raised you but instilled the aforementioned terror about breaking a bowl which you bought at a goodwill first time you came back to this shit apartment (how could you just _leave_ your home, or prison, or whatever poetic shit stick you want to call it.) Well, smartass, you’re still locked in place and it’s been seven minutes, forty-three seconds.

The apartment is still silent. You definitely don’t feel the hairs on your arms stand, at the back of your neck, those goosebumps that meant you were being watched and graded. So. Slowly you will your muscles to unlock, you will yourself to breathe (even though everything hurts, everything feels cold and terror driven), and you force yourself to put your sword back. You’re cool. You’re ice cold. Ice cube. Frozen. Antarctic. You get on your knees, dish towel in hand and start to clean up the mess of shards. It’s some fucked up thought that comes that makes you stop again.

The shards are me.

Your eyes roll. Nice going, emo mcdramarson. The only sound after your exasperated huff is the pieces clinking gently as you grab them and then a sob. Hands stop and one presses hard with nails digging into your cheeks. Your eyes sting. It’s just a fucking bowl. A ridiculous Donald Duck bowl you chose because it was mad ironic and totally fits with your whole cool kid aesthetic. It’s just a fucking bowl, Strider, pull yourself together holy shit. Somehow you still cry. Bent over, hand on your mouth digging little crescent moons into your cheek, sobbing as quietly as possible.

Karkat told you you weren’t alone. Dirk offered to help. Rose said if you needed anything, she was a phone call away. Jade, and John, and Roxy, and Jane, and Kanaya. Everyone told you, if you need us, we’ll be there. Somehow you still feel alone. There’s no real way to explain. How even do you explain this? This sudden bout of terror and tears you thought you’d put behind you? How do you explain to them that you cried over a stupid mickey mouse merchandise bowl? Or that ridiculous idea that popped after? You don’t, that’s what you do. You’re not a pussy, you’re a man. No, it’s not that. You’re just. You don’t know. You’re not a man, but you’re an adult, and aren’t things supposed to be easier when you’re an adult?

Pain is forced down your throat and you finish cleaning up, throwing the pieces to the trash. You take a moment to stand up and breathe, just to gather yourself and wipe the tears away. Food’s done so you grab another bowl, pushing your shades up your nose. It’s something your Bro used to make, before training got progressively harder and before he hit it big. It’s nothing but beans, made soupy and with a little salt. You put some cream in the middle and place it on the tray with some water. A deep sigh gushes over your lips, it feels like that, and you stand there with your hands on either side of the tray on the counter. Deep breaths. You can do this. You’re a Strider. You give another deep sigh before you head to your Bro’s room.

Back to comparing shit to a movie. You can’t help it. It still feels like some depressing indie film. Where’s your depressing soundtrack. Maybe that’s something you can work on, make a damn playlist or something (the tv is on in the living room, you have your record player on in your room, speakers on playing some podcast in the computer, just noise, noise noise.)

One day you’ll come in and he’ll be back to normal, smirking in that way that is almost a sneer that makes you look down at your socked feet, ready to be weighed and judged. Instead, your feet pad quietly as you set the tray on the nightstand and look at him. He looks healthy enough. You’ve been feeding him what you eat and he eats it without complaint. Or without much of any other infliction in his face. Or reaction. Sometimes it’s nerve wracking. Sometimes you want to leave everything there and let him eat on his own. Sometimes you want to grab him by the shoulders and scream, ask him finally, _why? Why did you have to hurt me? Why wasn’t I ever enough? Did you ever l--?_

You tug him to the edge of the bed instead and he comes without a fight. You turn the tv here on, volume low as a murmur. You sit besides him, grab the bowl and spoon, getting some of the warm soup, and start feeding him. There’s something jarring about the past few weeks. Feeding him; bathing him (your cheeks turned red the first time and you don’t know how you feel about not being as embarrassed now); dressing him; putting him to sleep; waking him up. It’s become a routine. The second day after he got here from the institution, you weren’t sure what to do with him.

Like, how the fuck do you even treat him? He’s all but lifeless. Like a goddamn pu--. Again, you furiously hit them mental breaks, shift gear, and drift the fuck out of that word because no fucking thank you. Years without even seeing one, and you have been doing way better thanks for asking.

You stop spoon feeding him. He stares blankly at you. “Hey.” It’s rare for you to speak. Mostly because it comes out worse than some kid going through adolescence in how bad your tone breaks. Clear your throat, try again. “Hey, Bro.” He blinks. “Well. Now you’re about to hear me and my infamous rants again, cause apparently that’s all I do. Rose says it’s some psychological shield against the silence or whatever. I mean. What does she know right? I got enough noise going on in the apartment to get us thinking we got a full house here right? Then again she’s always a little too close to home if you ask me. Makes my ballsack withdraw so fast up my ass I get rectal whiplash.”

His answer is more silence. You don’t stop. You can’t help it. “Who’da thought huh? Me taking care of you? I mean, no offense, but you did a shit job.” He blinks and his eyes look at you, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re a god yourself, you’d have prayed to some other deity for strength and courage because _jesus h christ_ there goes your fucking soul right up your throat. You stay frozen in place, spoon and bowl in hand. He blinks. It’s when you notice his eyes are unfocused that you relax. Your back hurts. You feel an acid sort of sensation in the back of your throat, heartburn down your chest, tension in your jaw and neck. You feel coiled tight for a fight. None comes.

“C’mon, Bro, don’t go scaring me like that. Man but Alfred Hitchcock would be taking notes from this shit. How to make someone shit themselves with just a look, in three easy steps.” A nervous laugh bubbles up and escapes your throat. You describe it like that, because it’s not a laugh out of attempted humor. It’s one from anxiety. “Master of terror, Bro Strider. Paves his way through Hollywood with a katana and a chip on his shoulder.” As you’ve been talking, you’ve been spoon feeding him again. Little by little the bowl empties until he’s finished. You help him drink water and then sit back. He’s back to staring ahead.

“You know. When you died, I didn’t cry.” Here you go with this fucking ridiculous indie film shit again. “I thought it was just shock. Or being unable to process the loss. Made sense. Rose thought so too. Or well, she tried to explain it some other way, I forget man. Either way, I didn’t like how I also felt relieved. It made me feel guilty. Not like, guilty in the sense of, you’re guilty, sentenced twelve years prison, solitary confinement, no conjugal visits allowed. More like, guilty like how when you get a cookie from the cookie jar and you look around waiting for the Adult to come and clamp their hand on your wrist. And that bothered me too.” The sound of linen on jeans has always felt like a private sound. On your own when you’re trying to relax. With Karkat when he’s atop you, chittering and purring (though he denies this to everyone). It feels wrong to hear it here. In this darkened room, with your brother in a t-shirt and loose pajama pants, no gloves, no hat, not shades.

“You could’ve trained me differently.” It sounds ugly. It’s too quiet. “You could’ve. You were so nice and you cared when I was younger. Like, man, you’d hug me and laugh and shit. And it pisses me off that I know you changed, that it’s not all your fault, because of that stupid _puppet._ ”

Silence. Your throat hurts. Your back is too tense. You feel pain in each individual vertebrae. He looks impassively to the floor, gaze unfocused like a _fucking puppet._ You hate the word, you hate that seeing one makes your adrenaline spike, you hate the flight instinct that comes for a split second and the violent fight instinct that takes over. You look away and push your hands under your shades, covering your face.

Even with the TV on, here, in the living room, your record player, the computer, there’s still silence.

“You. You could have--” Your voice breaks, ugly and like glass. You stop. Put the shades over your eyes again and sigh. He looks forwards as impassive as ever. You set everything back in the tray and leave, setting it on the counter of the kitchen before you go back and. Well. He always seems to be a little more responsive when he’s near you. You stand him up and guide him, hand on his shoulder, holding his hand, into the living room. You put something on you think he might like, some dumb satire show about monsters or whatever and help him sit on the couch. He only blinks.

You leave him to it.

 

* * *

 

Dirk visits unprompted and you jump almost a foot in the air when he knocks. It’s been another few weeks after whatever the fuck happened that definitely didn’t happen. You slip back to routine and even manage to find someone to help you with him in the rare occasions you go out. The place is clean enough but you don’t know how you feel about him seeing his alternate in the flesh. But if you hide him away it looks like you feel guilty. But he might freak out if he sees your Bro. But it will look weird and feel weird to kinda lock him up in his room while you two talk.

Three minutes, twelve seconds, his internal clock chimes helpfully. You can’t turn back time, Dirk would feel it and _then_ it really would be weird. So you settle for setting him in the balcony chair, making sure he’s wrapped up in a blanket before you head back inside and let him in.

“Were you panicking.” His tone is almost flat and accusing but you know him and you know he’s teasing. He’s also worried. Only another Strider can read through the impassiveness and fifty layers of sarcasm and irony that you both put up. The difference is he puts his up to keep people ‘safe’ from him and you do it to keep yourself safe. Ha ha.

“No, definitely, not, me panicking? I’m Dave fucking Strider, I don’t panic. I’m cold as ice, man, colder than fucking Sub Zero without the whole freezing my enemies shpiel because I have time powers instead.” You keep fucking ranting, mouth moving and mind disconnected as he walks in, plastic bag in hand.

“You’re ranting.” That makes you stop and your mouth clacks shut comically loud.

“Thanks, Dirk, if you hadn’t told me I’d have had to call the cops, call fucking SVU in this place make sure they know we’re looking for my stop button--” You stop when he sets the bag in the kitchen counter. When he takes his ridiculous pointy shades off and turns to you, offering his arms.

When the game spit you all into your ‘won’ universe and everything settled as well as it could, Dirk had to learn a lot of things. Because he could read people perfectly, yeah, but he didn’t know how to react properly without pushing someone away, keeping them at arm’s length, or being an ass on accident. But you were all there for him. Before, he wouldn’t have done this. Offered a quiet hug. The first time it was awkward but what you needed.

It’s not awkward as you walk to him and set your forehead on his shoulder and wrap your hands around his thin waist, as he hugs you back and stays quiet. It’s what you need though.

“I told you I could help you with him. He’s me.” His words tickle on your ear as you keep holding on. “I know he’s your bro, but you’re mine now. Cousin. Whichever. You don’t have to do this alone.” He’s right. Dirk doesn’t talk a lot. He’s taller than you by a little even though he’s your age. He seems wiser, but it’s not wisdom or intelligence. It’s a weird sort of fear in you both. That you will end up alone, that he’ll end up alone. Neither of you want that.

“Let me talk to him. After we have lunch. You haven’t cooked yet have you?” You snort and bump your forehead against his shoulder. “No.” He rubs your back and you feel your shoulders relax, feel the anxiety and tenseness go away.

Lunch is takeout and it makes you smile. After some deliberation and after he assures you it’ll be fine, you bring Bro back into the room and sit him at the table as you and Dirk set tables and the takeout boxes on it. It feels almost. Like a home. With you and your ectocousin (you already have a brother, and he’s not him save for minuscule aspects) talking, you feeding your Bro between bites while you listen to Dirk talk about projects, about fixing things with his friends, between him and Jake, how it feels to see so many new things and people enmass instead of living isolated. He admits that sometimes it’s too much and he isolates himself on purpose with his headphones on, playing the sound of the ocean.

“What about you?” The question catches you unaware. You’re not even sure why. He’s been sharing himself. It’s honestly polite for you to do the same. Though it’s not a question out of politeness, or waiting for your turn to speak. His brows are furrowed, just slightly. He’s worried.

“Eh, you know, making beats, writing comics. Don’t have to do much out of that, and even then I’m pretty stacked. Managed to find a way to also abuse the system here and I’m kind of just, y’know, set.” It’s weird to think of yourself as rich when you still live with old habits, like buying things that will last you a month to eat, like buying clothes at Goodwill, like using the bus instead of the truck. “I mean, I’ve been taking some pictures of liminal spaces lately. You know, a bus when it’s empty, mall’s inside when they’re closing, parking lots empty, stuff like that.”

He eats some lo mein and hums. He’s not shrugging you off. He  _ is _ taking your appearance in, the manner in which you look away as you talk, how you’re kind of pushing your orange chicken around. “It’s been a kind of on and off project lately. Other times I take pictures of rooftops and what people got there. You know. Existential bullcrap and stuff about ways of lives and all that.”

“You’re ranting again.” He interrupts.

You stop. Turn to him and your brows furrow. He’s giving you this slight frown when he speaks up, “You know that’s not what I meant. I told you what I’ve been doing because it has to do with my emotional status. You’re withdrawing and you can’t shrug it off with a mountain of words with me.”

The silence after that stretches as you both eat. It’s not a bad silence. He’s just waiting for you. You’ve only told him in full detail what your Bro used to do to you. There’s things not even Rose knows. Your shoulders slump as you look at the plate of food then at your Bro, still besides you both, eating slowly. “...it’s like. Like living with a mannequin.” It comes out soft as you take some food, offering it to him. His mouth opens and you place the food inside, watching as his lips close on the chopsticks and he chews, eyes distant and unfocused.

“I know why he’s like this. I know that what that thing did to him rooted too deep in his brain, pretty much blended his goddamn neurons better than a ninja blender, but.” You go quiet again, chopsticks held tight in your hand. “Is it bad I want to just. I want him back. I want my Bro. I want the one I knew before he started on his fucking’Nam training bullshit. I want him to like me. I want him to be proud I did this on my own and I was. I want him to tell me I make him proud.”

“Dave.” You look up at him but you’re not even trying to hide behind the stupid cool kid  _ bullshit _ . His face, as stoic as ever, you see the slight softness. He stands up and takes his seat, setting it besides you. “It’s not wrong. And, not to brag or anything, but I like you as is, man. And him being kind of me, I’m sure he’ll like and appreciate what you’re doing.” He starts to eat, seated besides you and doesn’t comment when you lean on his shoulder. Or when you give him half a hug. Instead he leans into it.

“It’s alright to want that. You still love him, he’s your brother. I mean, it was fucking hard as hell when I finally met David.” Your Alpha counterpart hadn’t been content with just staying in one place. He also had been disoriented and confused when there was no evil overfish horror taking over Earth. The same happened to Rosalind. They were full adults of you and Rose and had never raised a child, so to suddenly have them thrust at them had been awkward and stilted. But he tried. He tried pretty hard (you were glad. Dirk deserved a proper guardian.)

You both stay silent after that and you snort. “It’s been hard.” Honesty finally. “It feels like sometimes he’ll go back to fucking, training me or beating the shit out of me. Sometimes I hear a noise at night and I’m fucking dressed and ready to fight in less than two minutes. Other times I see him on the sofa and I feel like he’ll ask what I’m doing in that way he does, no, did.” Your eyes move to him, sitting there still and unmoving. “Other times I want to hit him.” It comes and goes, that thought, that urge.  _ See how he likes it, _ some nasty part of you hisses.

But you don’t do it. You wouldn’t. You can’t. It fills you with guilt afterward. “Is that fucked up?”

“Mad fucked up.” He says through a mouthful of food and you snort again, smiling. “But you don’t do it, do you?” Even though he asks and you shake your head, you both know the answer. “Then that’s fine. You keep kicking yourself over shit you think about. Same as I do. And what do you tell me? You tell me.” He swallows. “Dirk. Get your head out your depression tent.” You give a chuckle and smile wider. “You may want to settle there, in you depression woods and your depression campsite, but maybe you should get out of there and move into logic city where we all convince you or at least remind you that you’re not as much of a douche as you think you are.”  _ That _ makes you chuckle, makes your spirits lighten up.

There’s another chuckle, deeper, and you both startle as you turn to your Bro. 

_ He’s smiling. _

“You’re seeing this right?” You feel petrified and kind of scared shitless.

“Unless the takeout had some poison, or hallucinogens I was unaware of, yes.”

Your Bro is smiling. His eyes are still unfocused, but he’s  _ smiling _ . As quick as it comes, the smile fades away and he goes back to the same blank expression. You’re not sure what to do now. Has he been hearing this whole time? Is he listening now? Is he conscious then, or just in small bits? Is he--

“You’re thinking too much.” Dirk reminds you and bumps your shoulder. “I say we do this a little more often. Maybe he’ll react more. Yeah?” You keep looking at him, then offer him food. His mouth opens as always and he chews when the food is in his mouth.

“Yeah." You swallow and go back to eating, not sure how you feel about the little flicker of hope you have in your chest. "Yeah I think we should do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said once a week and this sure as heck isn't a week
> 
> If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. [Buy Me a Coffee](https://ko-fi.com/C0C8A1O6)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by eighthchiharu and their work found http://eighthchiharu.tumblr.com/post/156144339888/post-sburb-au-restored-guardians-restored-earth
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'll try to update once a week.


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